The ship to Pentos was a rotting husk of a vessel, but for Santia, it was a playground of minds. While Viserys paced the deck, nursing his bruises and dreaming of gold, and Daenerys watched the waves with a heavy heart, Santia sat in the shadows of the cargo hold, her eyes closed, her mind stretched thin across the water.
She didn't need to look to know that Melisandre was there. The Red Priestess had taken a separate, faster galley, trailing the Targaryens like a bloodhound.
The ThreatThe danger came on the third night. A group of sellswords, hired by a silent contact in King's Landing, had infiltrated the crew. They didn't want the "Beggar King" Viserys; they wanted the girls. The order was simple: kill the boy, take the sisters, and deliver them to a ship bound for the Narrow Sea.
As the moon reached its zenith, three men crept toward the family's cramped cabin, daggers drawn.
The Shadow's StrikeSantia felt the jagged, murderous intent of the men long before they reached the door. She sat up in her bunk, her violet eyes glowing in the pitch black. She didn't wake Daenerys. Instead, she reached out across the dark water to the heat she felt vibrating in the distance.
Now, Santia commanded. Protect what is mine.
On the deck of the trailing galley, Melisandre stood at the prow, her ruby throat-piece burning like a coal. She didn't need to see the assassins; she saw them through Santia's eyes. She raised her hands, chanting in a tongue that sounded like the crackle of dry wood.
In the Targaryen's cabin, the shadows in the corner began to detach themselves from the floor.
The first assassin reached for the door handle. Suddenly, he froze. A hand—not made of flesh, but of shifting, ink-black smoke—wrapped around his throat. He couldn't scream. The shadow had no weight, yet it crushed his windpipe with the strength of a titan.
The second man turned to run, but the shadow was everywhere. It flowed across the deck like spilled ink, rising up behind him. It didn't use a blade; it simply reached into the man's chest. He collapsed instantly, his heart stopped by a coldness that belonged to the lands beyond the sun.
The PurificationThe third man made it to the rail, desperate to jump. But Melisandre's power was not just in shadows; it was in the fire that cast them.
From the distance, a bolt of white-hot heat seemed to leap from the waves. It wasn't a physical flame, but a psychic combustion. The man's clothes didn't burn, but he let out a silent, internal scream as his mind was incinerated from the inside out. He tumbled overboard, a hollow shell before he even hit the water.
The Morning AfterWhen the sun rose, the crew found three bodies. There were no wounds, no blood, and no signs of a struggle. The men looked as though they had simply ceased to exist while standing up.
Viserys spent the morning shouting about "cursed ships" and "bad omens," his face pale with a fear he couldn't name. Daenerys held Santia close, her hands trembling. "Something is watching us, Santia. I feel it."
Santia leaned her head against her sister's shoulder, a small, innocent smile playing on her lips. She could feel Melisandre's mind across the water—a kneeling, devoted presence waiting for the next command.
"Don't worry, Dany," Santia whispered. "The shadows only hurt the bad men. We're perfectly safe."
Beneath the deck, the "Hum" in Santia's head was a purr of satisfaction. She had her Queen-in-waiting, she had her Prophetess, and now, she had her first kills.